


Pesce Potenziale

by chuutoku



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 01:44:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chuutoku/pseuds/chuutoku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Band AU. Born with a rare set of Vongola vocal chords, Reborn seeks out Tsuna in Japan to form a band and become the next Italian music sensation. Substitute "music industry" for "mafia" and you're set. [ On semi-permanent hiatus. ]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sawada Tsunayoshi, Vocalist

Sawada ain’t no Sharada.  
  
But there’s something _fishy_ about him, you know? Behind the failing grades, paltry 22 Facebook friends (plus his mother) and buttmonkey reputation. I sense untapped _potential_ ; some beautiful, festering thing that bleeds only when dealt a good one-two punch to the solar plexus. Have you heard Sawada scream? Chorus of angels comes out of his mouth. Most can’t hear it ‘cause their lungs are fit to bursting with laughter -- Sawada’s just acquainted his face with the gym floor _again_ , classic -- but, man. When you do, it’s like... something warm fills you up for a second, right between your chest and your stomach, and... I don’t know, when it happens to me, all I can think about is the first time I boxed. Sometimes mom hugging a tinier me, sometimes pops smiling before he kicked the bucket; sis twirls in the living room wearing a tutu and Babo licks my hand after a game of fetch; whatever. Two seconds go by, image’s gone with the echoes of that gorgeous shriek.  
  
That’s the only reason I trip the guy when I get the chance, okay? Read between the lines.

* * *

Tsuna? Wow, when I think about how long I’ve known him...! We’ve gone to the same school ever since we were little kids. I think we used to live nearby each other before he moved. It must’ve been around the same time his dad left; I used to joke he’d eloped with my mom. Tsuna would get so flustered! I don’t see him around too much anymore -- busy with baseball and helping dad with the restaurant -- but... I don’t think he’s having too good a time in junior high. I wish I could do more for him. I mean, he’s done so much for me!  
  
But I can’t tell you about that, haha. Not before I know who you are!

* * *

Leave or I’ll bite you to death.

* * *

You wanna talk about _that_ lameass? Get out of my face or give me your number, cutie.

* * *

Sawada-san? I... I feel so awkward around him! I’d really like to be his friend because he seems kind of lonely, but Brother tries to... “set us up” whenever he sees us together. Sawada-san gets so embarrassed that _I_ get embarrassed! I don’t mean to make him feel uncomfortable -- I’ve tried to tell Brother countless times that I’m not interested and that he’s only making things between Sawada-san and Mochida-sempai worse -- but... it’s almost as if Brother _likes_ it when Sawada-san gets in trouble! I don’t understand it.... He tells me to listen when things start happening but I... I can’t even look! I don’t know what to do. I wish things were simpler....  
  
Huh? I’m Sasagawa Kyoko. N-no way! You go to that cake shop, too?! Now that you mention it, I remember seeing you there a few times before! Do you have class this afternoon? No? It’s... not that time of the month yet, but would you like to...?

* * *

You did well. I’m impressed you managed to gather this much information in such a short span of time, Miss Miura. How did you know I like strawberry shortcake the best? Ah, yes -- something like that wouldn’t escape your observational prowess. I suppose one hug won’t hurt.  
  
Have a good evening. If you need me, you can find me at Tsuna’s place starting tomorrow. Ask for Reborn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the curious, Haru consults Ryohei, Yamamoto, Hibari, Mochida, and Kyoko, in that order.


	2. Gokudera Hayato, Pianist

“WHAT WHAT WHAT WAIT _WHAT_ WHAT DON’T TOUCH ME DON’T LOOK AT ME DON’T EVEN I CAN’T I WHAT -- ”  
  
“It’s just a microphone, Tsuna.”  
  
“IT WAS A LIZARD TWO SECONDS AGO YOU’RE A TALKING BABY WEARING A FEDORA I THINK I’M ABOUT TO HAVE A HEART ATTACK WAIT _DON’T TOUCH ME_ \-- ”  
  
“Strange,” Reborn licks a finger, flips a page. “I’d thought Haru exaggerated Ryohei’s account to preserve the effect of the ‘extremes’  she omitted but it looks like,” he squints, “‘a good one-two punch to the solar plexus’ might be in order.”  
  
“WHAT. WHAT IS THAT WHAT ARE YOU DOING STOP LOOKING AT ME THAT WAY _DO YOU EVEN HAVE PUPILS_ I -- ”  
  
“Stand still.”  
  
“WHA -- ”  
  
Meet our hero, folks: the guy with the incredibly expensive Armani loafer lodged in his abdomen, Sawada Tsunayoshi. Japanese and maybe one-sixty-fourth Italian; more stick than substance despite the feasts his mother feeds him; “successfully” half-assing his way through eighth grade by virtue of a merciful professor; altogether looking kind of dumb with his finger and his thumb in the shape of an “L” on his forehead. Few redeeming qualities, no skill or ability. But listen --  
  
“ -- AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA -- ”  
  
\-- this kid’s gonna be the next big thing.  
  
“ -- AAT, ow ow ow ow get off please I can’t really breathe it hurts it hurts -- OWW, WHY DID YOU HIT ME A SECOND TIME?”  
  
“Shut up," Reborn leaps off Tsuna, “and stop complaining. I wouldn’t have had to scuff my shoe if you’d just cooperated.”  
  
He consults his papers again.  
  
“I’d rather never see whatever vision you put into my head for the rest of my life, but there’s no doubt; Ryohei was right. That voice is Vongola quality.”  
  
“Brother called me a what?”  
  
“Pay attention, Tsuna, and quit slumping against the wall like that.”  
  
Tsuna obeys.  
  
“I have a team that’ll fix up your room later. For now, all you need to know is that you’ll be sharing your house with me -- don’t interrupt -- in exchange for becoming the next Italian music sensation.”  
  
Tsuna blinks. His mouth parts open --  
  
“You’re late for school,” Reborn mentions.  
  
\-- and Tsuna scrambles to his feet, swipes a crumpled Namimori Middle uniform from his dresser, makes it _this_ close to the door before doubling back to grab some boxers.  
  
“WHAT _NO_ YOU’VE GOT TO BE _KIDDING_ ME -- ”  
  
“Come straight home after class.”

* * *

5 minutes into pre-algebra and Tsuna already wishes he were sick at home, or maybe dead, or possibly a vegetable. Nothing that would make anyone wrinkle their nose, either; something like carrots or tomatoes or the perennial favorite, potatoes. Mama Sawada could boil him, or mash him, or stick him in a stew where he could finally prove himself _useful_. He’d nourish somebody; he’d taste delicious. He’d be a great potato.  
  
 _you okay, tsuna?_  
  
He blinks pseudoindulgently, slides out of his slouch to get a better read. Judging by Yamamoto’s exaggerated stretch and the athlete scrawl, he wrote the note. Must’ve deposited it on Tsuna’s desk in the middle of a back-crack.  
  
 _Yeah, i’m fine. Just thinking about how much better my life would be if i were a potato._  
  
He almost erases that, then thinks -- what else would Yamamoto say except, “haha, oh Tsuna, let’s have lunch together?”  
  
A beat passes before a second piece of paper lands on his desk.  
  
 _haha, oh tsuna. let’s have lunch together._  
  
Natch.  
  
 _by the way -- did you notice the new kid?_  
  
Tsuna frowns, shrugs into a sitting position again.  
  
 _What new kid?_  
  
Window to his left: view of school grounds, some of the town and a speck on the roof strumming a shamisen. Tsuna shivers. Thank heavens Hibari didn’t catch him creeping in tardy to homeroom today.  
  
Some girl with long, layered brown hair tied back by a bow solves problems in front of him. Not as pretty, charming, kind, interesting, funny, intelligent, happy, or carefree as Sasagawa Kyoko; not important.  
  
 _Behind you_ , Yamamoto mouths to his right.  
  
Tsuna turns.  
  
Guy’s small enough to prop a combat boot on the edge of his desk, drape an arm over the back of his chair and look comfortable doing it all. His leg hides the flip phone he’s playing Pacman on; his bleached hair’s pulled together in a loose ponytail; a pack of cigarettes threatens to slip out of his pants pocket; a little razor blade hangs from his neck. Girls (not Sasagawa Kyoko; she’s pure and good, _thank the everloving heavens_ ) ogle him without shame.  
  
“Sawada Tsunayoshi” -- Ms. Pre-Algebra shocks him out of his horror; Gokudera Hayato’s eyes, big and bright, roll up to meet his own -- “please face the front of the class and solve problem 7.”  
  
They quickly settle into something serpentine.  
  
“Y-yes, ma’am.”  
  
Tsuna forgets how to divide a fraction by a fraction; Ms. Pre-Algebra assigns him additional problems to complete at home.  
  
 _interesting guy, huh?_  
  
 _He’s going to kill me. I can feel it._  
  
Yamamoto stifles a laugh as the bell ushers in second period.

* * *

“I know what’ll make you feel better, Tsuna,” Yamamoto says between bites of bento. “You should come watch the game after school and eat dinner with us.”  
  
“Can’t. Your team wouldn’t like that, for one, and for two, I apparently have to -- not again!”  
  
Wind blows a well-sized chunk of rice out of Tsuna’s lunch bowl. It rolls a ways until it teeters on the edge of the roof, stuck to the cement. Tsuna lets it go.  
  
“Why do we sit up here?” he whines.  
  
“Haha, I don’t know! We’ve always done it. Here, you can have some of mine.”  
  
Food exchanges hands; Yamamoto throws in a cucumber roll (“Oh, hey, it’s okay, really.”) for good measure (“Touched your plate, Tsuna, sorry! I can’t eat it anymore.”). The vegetable picks Tsuna up a little. He could pick people up, too, provided his muscle were replaced with cellulose.  
  
“Tsuna?”  
  
He looks up, bats his hair out of the way. Yamamoto has that glint in his eye -- his mouth set just so -- that makes Tsuna think he’s not totally stupid sometimes. _Gulp._  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“What’d you have to do after school again?”  
  
“Oh!” Think fast, Tsuna. “M-my mom wants me to babysit my, uh, cousin. Aunt dropped him off today. Real handful.”  
  
Yamamoto grins. “Buy him some peanuts and Cracker Jack. Bet you baseball would distract him.”  
  
“No, no, he’s uh, seriously not the type. At all. I think. He prefers... music. Wants to stay at home. Spoiled brat, you know, might worry his clo -- _OWW_ , what the -- ?!”  
  
“Can’t believe the wind blew a rock up here, too,” Yamamoto laughs.  
  
Reminding Tsuna that those “sometimes” when Yamamoto betrays any intelligence are few/far between and that he’s all kinds of screwed all of a sudden.

* * *

Within seconds of hightailing it home -- worksheets shoved into folders, folders zipped into schoolbag, legs stretching the length of corridors at such a speed and to such a degree that Tsuna’s pants unzip at the front and threaten to fall off -- Tsuna’s face and the floor have their daily rendezvous.  
  
“B-Brother!” he stands, stammers, starts to zip up. “Look, um, today _really_ isn’t the best day to -- ”  
  
“What the hell did you just call me?”  
  
Tsuna tentatively raises his head, squints. Ripped up jeans -- not Ryohei’s style, not yet -- bordered by a (tacky) Hawaiian shirt, with a... razor blade where the guy should button up a little and -- Tsuna’s eyes slide downwards -- c-combat boo --  
  
“What,” Gokudera Hayato’s fist’s suddenly all up in Tsuna’s shirt, “the _hell_ are you looking at?”  
  
“I,” Tsuna coughs to buy time; guy’s cigarette breath makes it seem realistic. “I. I’m. I. Sorry. Mistake. Let go. Please.”  
  
“Can’t, loser. Kid told me to pick you up. Speak again and I’ll destroy you.”  
  
Tsuna drags his schoolbag behind him; Gokudera tugs Tsuna along by his collar. He surveys the corridors -- club rooms? -- and notices Gokudera’s let his hair down, rolled up his sleeves, has a tattoo running up his arm.  
  
 _“Kid told me to pick you up.” Club -- like, you know, the weapon -- rooms. A delinquent._  
  
Logical conclusion: _Yakuza. Oh my god, I’m about to get beaten up by_ yakuza.  
  
The room Gokudera throws him into is bright, wide, lined with black stands (pummeling), string instrument bows (stabbing), horns (blowing ears out): must be where the music club jams. Tsuna hears the latch click to his left ( _oh my god_ ), glass clinking and a clipped thud to his right ( _OH MY G --_ ).  
  
“You’re late.”  
  
Gokudera shrugs. “Had to trip him up and lug him over, he was running so fast.”  
  
Tsuna gets a hunch. He stops rubbing his head, looks to the side. Yeah, Reborn’s smirking. “I see you took me seriously.”  
  
“You told me to go home!” Tsuna starts accusingly, shuts up when he feels a boot on his back.  
  
“Change of plans,” Reborn says and adjusts his fedora. “I hadn’t thought your partner would take me seriously, too.”  
  
“Don’t get the wrong idea,” Gokudera jumps in, holding a note up like a smoke. “I haven’t agreed to anything yet and if _this_ ” -- the boot on Tsuna’s back feels heavier -- “is what I flew to Japan for, I’m going back. Just. What’re you -- ?!”  
  
“You may have noticed I neglected to give you money for a return ticket,” Reborn interjects, “and that you’re in my debt for having used what I lent you. Should either of you open your mouths once more in the next five minutes, I will call the Varia.”  
  
“The wha -- ”  
  
“S-shut the fuck up, loser!”  
  
 _Must be the yakuza._  
  
“Tsuna,” Reborn says, “as I mentioned this morning, I will be your manager, music tutor and singing coach. I’ve searched long and hard for someone like you. The last larynx with as much potential as yours belonged to your grandfather, but he chose to eschew performance in favor of business. Unfortunately, your father sounded like a frog recently run over. Vongola’s lacked its signature tonal quality in a singer for decades now despite some major, unrelated successes, but with most of the world riding the hallyu wave, we need something special to make a comeback. Something like your voice.”  
  
Glass clinks again; Reborn downs the last of his tea.  
  
“That’s all you have going for you. I’ve done my research: you have no confidence, no interests, no social life and no intellectual or personal brilliance whatsoever, not to mention a self-pitying streak, an inclination to expect the worst and no musical training. Far from star material. But mark my words, Sawada Tsunayoshi -- by the time you and I are through, I’ll have made a man out of you. Any questions?”  
  
Loaded silence. The obvious aside --  
  
“Um,” Tsuna mumbles, points to the guy keeping him in an uncomfortable crouch, “why’s he here?”  
  
“To do precisely what he’s doing,” Reborn responds. “Gokudera Hayato is a classically trained piano maestro originally set to debut under his father’s label. They had a bit of a falling out. Alas, purely instrumental piano isn’t popular in the mainstream and, well, I’m sure you’ve heard him speak. He can’t accompany his own playing if he sounds like gravel.”  
  
With a _tch_ , Gokudera removes his boot from its perch on Tsuna’s back. Tsuna straightens up.  
  
“I, uh, can’t refuse this... offer?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Really.”  
  
“Like how really?”  
  
“Like everything you consider dear may permanently disappear really.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Tsuna risks glancing at Gokudera.  
  
“How about him?”  
  
“Depends whether your voice makes an impression or not. Either way, he has to repay the expenses he’s incurred me.”  
  
While Gokudera waves Reborn off with a _yeah, yeah_ , Tsuna suppresses a grin. _I can’t sing. There’s no way he’ll accept. Thank the majestic, everloving --_  
  
“Here you go, Tsuna.” Reborn hands him a microphone. Tsuna flips it on, clears his throat for good measure. He glances at the little baby with its little smile, inclines his head to look at the kid crossing his arms and tapping his foot, cigarette shoved to the corner of his mouth -- and Tsuna opens his own.  
  
“ _Aaaah~ w-what the~ wha~at’s going o~on_ , REBORN, WHAT DID YOU DO TO THE -- ”  
  
“You’ve broken the atmosphere you’ve created! We’ll have to work on that. Don’t turn the microphone off next time.” Reborn snatches it out of Tsuna’s hands; it morphs back into his lizard. It’s all Tsuna can manage not to gape.  
  
“No way. There’s _no way_.”  
  
“Well, Gokudera?” Reborn begins. “Will you stay in Japan?”  
  
Tsuna follows Reborn’s gaze. Both of Gokudera’s boots are firmly planted to the ground; he holds the cigarette between two fingers as his shoulders shake, head down so his hair hides his face.  
  
A chill settles into Tsuna’s wrists, arms, stomach.  
  
 _What have I done?_  
  
“That’s that, then!” Reborn chirps. “But ballads don’t make for much variety. In addition to your everyday practices, you’ll be charged with finding bandmates -- or I’ll assign them to you, which means you’ll have to master Italian by next week, Tsuna. Up to you. Anyone come to mind that might play the bass, guitar, drums?”


End file.
